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by cainesaw
Summary: South Park was always gloomy, in winter time particularly, like a condensed mass of depression and snow was looming over the town and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. It was no secret Stan indulged in the occasional bottle or two, it was like drowning his brain in sweet delirium. And Kenneth McCormick had booze on him.


"I don't like being like this."

South Park was always gloomy, in winter time particularly, like a condensed mass of depression and snow was looming over the town and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. The snow creaked beneath Stan Marsh's feet as he trudged down the street, the snow breaking through his shoes as he hadn't felt the motivation to put boots on.

What did it matter anyway? Maybe if he got a cold he could dope up on cough medicine. Or sleep a lot. Preferably both.

"No one does," Kenny, on the other hand, strode on, running his hands through his snow-dusted, honey colored hair that took on a lifeless hue against the grey of the clouds above him, "you just kinda bear with it," he was tall, taller than Stan, gangly and freckled, "I guess," he added hastily.

"Oh."

The thing that drove their friendship forward was what would stunt most people completely but they never really cared about most people. Stan did, a little bit. He puffed some air out and watched the fog spread generously before fading while the pinpricks of snow and wind hit his face.

"I'm sick of everything, y'know?" he suggested and Kenny eyed him gently, offering a consoling smile, "I mean, everyone I've ever liked has liked someone else and just," he cut himself off, exhaled again, and stared up, "everything is shit."

"You wanna get drunk at your place?" to be frank, Kenny preferred Stan's house to his, possibly because of the actual existence of a roof.

Stan's room was nice and isolated. They could drink and smoke and shoot up and do anything they liked in there. Nothing was off limits when his parents stopped giving a shit. Or maybe it was the delirium that made it seem that way. Maybe the vacant, stock responses held some emotion under them that Stan's lost the ability to see. Or maybe they were just pretending to care and the noirette saw through it. Either way, sober afternoons were dull and their backpacks were heavy and Stan's house seemed like a great idea.

"Hey mom," it was airy and cold and his mother's head shot up from behind the open door of the living room as she greeted her son.

"We're having peas for lunch," Kenny thought he heard her say. He wasn't quite sure anymore. Everything was gentle nonsense that he only understood for a few seconds, after which he was hit with self-doubt of whether it actually happened.

It didn't matter as Stan's pale form disappeared up the stairs with him and the room door slammed shut.

Blue eyes scanned each other. Stan's were darker; Kenny's were paler.

"You know," the blond kid began, "you should be grateful I snuck booze into the school building for you."

"Thanks, dude."

And they were beyond trying to help each other, it was a 'how long can I survive this' type of deal. Kenny would win.

What was curious was Stan's interpretation of the McCormick boy's deaths. He figured cynicism fucked you up a little.

"So, you die?" frankly, he'd only figured it out recently, "like you just… die."

"Yeah," and there was something hollow about it. He couldn't put his finger on it, though. But he did feel it.

"Lucky."

"I wish I could die for real, though, just… one surge of pain and then nothing, y'know?"

"I'd be sad if you died," and frost caught against the window, "so don't try, okay?"

"Yeah."

And in retrospect, Stan realized it was a stimulating conversation. In reality, he just wanted to get drunk. He wanted his brain to drown in whatever Kenny had in his bag and he wanted to feel full again.

His stomach and body was like a looming emptiness, but so much heavier, like a weight was stuck in his ribcage and the rest of his body was emptied completely and the weight felt uncomfortable and he couldn't stand it anymore and it hurt and he hated it. The frost on the window seemed familiar.

"Kenny," he drew the blond's attention, icy eyes meeting his, "do you love anyone?"

"I dunno," Kenneth admitted while he messed with his dusty blond hair, "I suppose, I mean I read somewhere that you just kinda… _know,_ y'know? You can tell and I… can't."

"I think I love people," the Marsh boy replied and his voice was meek and tiny against the stuffy silence, "I love Kyle and you and my parents… I guess," the last part was a mumble.

Kenny always figured Stan loved a lot of people, that boy's heart was big as the moon sometimes. He loved the mountains and the animals and the bright sky. Maybe it was a different kind of love.

"I like Wendy, too," he continued, "even though I think she hates me. Maybe it's less of a love, more of… I miss what we had, I guess, but I wouldn't want to do it again. It's just nice to think about sometimes," Kenny smiled at him and hummed in agreement, "where's that alcohol?"

Sighing loudly, the McCormick boy shifted and pulled the paper-bag-wrapped bottle and handed it to Stan who, without even looking, opened it and took a swig, hissing lightly before going in for another one.

It was no secret Stan indulged in the occasional bottle or two, it was like drowning his brain in sweet delirium. Acid was too much delirium and heroin never did him good. Booze was nice. It cradled him to nothingness and the weight felt lighter for at least a little bit.

Kenny stayed over and they fought over the bottle until it was empty and they fought over something else. And clothes came off and sweaty bodies molded against each other and Kenny swore he saw Stan cry. They moved against each other nervously and hastily and black hair merged with blond and Kenny was very light.

Somewhere between dusk and dawn, they fell asleep. And somewhere between dawn and noon they woke up. And deep blue eyes met pale ones and Kenneth's lips turned upwards for a moment while Stanley messed with his hair and he sighed into the silence of the room and opened his mouth to speak:

"Good morning," and he thrived for something simple. Kenny was simple, they were simple.

This was simple.


End file.
